


First Date

by weneedtotalkaboutsherlock (Paradoxe1914)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Banter, Dancing, Dating, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff, John is Perfect, M/M, Movie Night, Pining Sherlock, Sherlock Is Bad At Flirting, Sherlock is clueless, Unilock, cemetary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-29
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-23 09:10:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13186926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradoxe1914/pseuds/weneedtotalkaboutsherlock
Summary: "It's… you know, when two people like each other and do stuff together?" John had said two days ago, when he had asked if Sherlock would be interested in a date. With him.With John Watson.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been to the movie theater to watch The Shape of Water, and the two guys in front of me that were visibly on a date gave me an idea for a ficlet. Hell, I’m not really interested in AUs, but I do have a soft stop for unilock, so there it goes!
> 
> Ficlet in which Sherlock is completely clueless regarding what supposed to happen on a date, and John secretly finds it adorable.

The movie is surprisingly not as boring as Sherlock thought it would be, although he is still unsure if it is truly due to the movie or to the context in which he is watching it.

"It's… you know, when two people like each other and do stuff together?" John had said two days ago, when he had asked if Sherlock would be interested in a _date_. With _him_.

With John _Watson_.

Having no idea what the hell to answer to that — and that was certainly a first, in many, many ways — he had been about to reply that if that was John's definition of a date, they already went on plenty: sure, it was usually under the supervision of Lestrade and included solving minor crimes on the campus, but that was surely _stuff_? Wasn't it? But John had obviously meant a _romantic-relationship_ -type-of-date.

"I know what a date is," he had replied, maybe a bit too stiffly.

"Never mind," John said, shaking his head and returning to the cardiology scheme he was trying to memorize.

"No— I meant— yes, I'd like that?"

John had looked up, smiled, and now here they are, two days later, at the theater. Watching a movie. On a date.

With John _Watson_.

Sherlock had insisted that John would chose the movie, which landed on some kind of Hollywoodian love story between a woman and a fish-man that lacked terribly in both physical and biological accuracy, but was apparently to win many awards, as John said. (They give awards, for movies? What for?!)

He had whispered through the first few minutes of the movie, but the folks behind them were getting tired of it, and John had advised him to shut up if they wanted to stay for the whole movie. (Do they really want to stay, though? At least at his flat he could comment on whatever he liked).

So now, deprived of his sarcastic commentary that usually makes John laugh, Sherlock is at loss at what exactly he is supposed to do with his time. He could certainly focus on the movie — right now, the lady he likes (not the mute one but the other one) is making quite accurate comments about men, which makes John and the audience laugh while he huffs silently through his nose.

He knows that sooner or later he will get bored. It's inevitable. But maybe this is not so bad. John is beside him, surely he can survive two other hours of that narrative being poured into his eyes in high definition. His hand goes automatically to the popcorn in John's hand (Sherlock had after all said that he wasn't hungry enough) and John, without looking but with a smile on his face, leans the bag slightly towards him.

After a few minutes, Sherlock wonders how exactly this is supposed to be a date. The website he went on, just after John left that night, said that dating was a way for people to get to know each other. But that was wrong, since he and John already know each other. They are, in fact, best friends, as John had said himself a month ago. Movies surely aren't a good time to get to know each other since of this silence-rule-thingy, so what is the point of this? The dating-advice website also said to chose a romantic movie or any movie that would interest the two parties, and while finding a movie that would interest Sherlock in any way is already a lost battle, he could see how that movie could be considered _romantic_. As romantic as it can get between a man-fish and a human, and apparently, seeing what is currently going on on screen, the answer is _very_. For a moment, he asks himself if the movie is supposed to be relatable. If John chose it for anything other than his love of science fiction and this particular director he kept on talking about during the trailers. Is the strange slimy-but-with-a-nice-butt man-fish supposed to be _him_? Does that make John a desperately lonely mute woman? He laughs internally at this inaccurate comparison. Surely he is thinking too much about it all.

But is he supposed to _do_ something?

He glances at John, who is apparently enthralled by the movie, relaxed and comfortably leaned back on his chair, in a position that is less-than-recommendable for his spine. Their knees are touching (knees do that, don't they?) and sometimes, when he goes for his Cola, John's arms brushes Sherlock's (but arms do that too!).

Should they hold hands? John is certainly not going for his hand, right now, but again, Sherlock's hand is still shoved in his pocket. Should _he_ try to hold John's hand? No. That would certainly be impractical for John if he wants to eat his popcorn or drink again, and what if holding hands would make him uncomfortable?

But he _has_ to do something! Until one of them moves, it's plain movie watching with a friend, and this is supposed to be a date, but he has never been on a date before and this idiotic website certainly did not help him to prepare enough and he has not enough data about—

This time it's John that glances at him, and smiles. Okay, he can do this. If he budges over a bit, he can learn properly and put his head on John's shoulder. That would be acceptable — it happened two or three times before while they were watching movies at his flat, the slightly-less boring ones with the good-looking spy, and John had said nothing then. He will surely not be opposed to it now.

When the side of his head comes in contact with John's shoulder, John hums a bit and wiggles to get more comfortable. After a few minutes, he puts his hand on Sherlock's knee, and that's pretty much the moment Sherlock stops registering anything that happens on screen, or even around them, as he focuses on John's breathing. It's something he knows well, by now, and it's strangely reassuring. This is just John, he tells himself. Date-John is no different from Usual-John, there is no reason for anything to go wrong.

So why go on a date in the first place? Surely Sherlock doesn't mind spending more time with John — in fact it's the very opposite of that, but they already know each other quite well. _Not romantically, though_ , an annoying voice in his head provides. Is that what it is about, then? John trying to see if he wants to be with Sherlock in _that_ way? Is it like a trial of a romantic relationship? A few dates and then John gets to choose if he wants him or not? The thought is disgusting in itself. Sherlock certainly knows what he wants, but then again not even two days ago John was not-gay and dating women.

Suddenly, the room lights up and Sherlock jerks away from John. Did the movie end already? He has no idea how it ends and hopes John won't ask about it, in which case he hopes that his prediction concerning the ending was true.

They stay in silence until they're out of the cinema, back in the freezing weather, which John comments on once more. It brings back Sherlock to reality. _Usual-John, it's only Usual-John_ , he reminds himself, and embarks on a recounting of the movie's inaccuracies regarding the man-fish's biology.

"It's impossible for a thing like that to even exist in the first place, whatever the scientist was talking about in the movie."

"I know it's impossible, but that's the point of it. It's science fiction, fantasy, a fairy tale for adults, if you wish, it doesn't have to be real, you know?"

"That's idiotic. How am I supposed to believe in a story if the story is not believable in the first place?"

That statement only makes John laugh, although he doesn't explain why.

Sherlock marvels at how easy it is to speak to John even if this is supposed to be a date. They keep on bickering about the movie, then about the last case they worked on. John then announces that he got an A in neuro which was his toughest class this semester and how he can't wait to actually get to work on real people, which leads Sherlock to complain about how he's tired that Mycroft keeps bringing back the fact that he still has no idea what he is to do with his life beside probably very illegal experiments in the uni's chem lab and solving mysteries about lost dogs and stolen purses on campus.

"That's probably much more fun than whatever Mycroft was doing during his years in uni," John replies with a shrug, and Sherlock cannot disagree.

Suddenly they are in front of 221b, and Sherlock wonders how they ended up getting there so fast. He fidgets in front of the door for a moment, unsure about what to do. Should he say something? Do something? Should he invite John inside? Would that imply—

"So, did you like it?" John finally says.

Sherlock has no idea whether he is talking about the movie or the date, so he tries to answer for both. "It was surprisingly not as boring as I thought it would be."

Oh god. Oh _god_. He should probably start digging a hole to disappear in it. _Not as boring as he thought it would be_?

Fortunately enough, John laughs earnestly, apparently not irritated at all with Sherlock's statement. "I guess that's a compliment, coming from you."

Sherlock smiles, not really knowing what to answer to that. They're in total silence once more, and he feels that he's supposed to do _something_ , only he doesn't know _what_. There are a thousand things he would like to do to John Watson, he dreamed about it for months and months, but now that he is confronted to the situation, reality leaves him unsure. John is the one who asked him on a date, surely he will be the first to make a move if he desires to. If not, that means that he's not… (Not what? Ready? Interested? Does the trial ends on the first date, after all?)

"It's snowing," John says, looking up.

He is close. Very close. How did he get that close without Sherlock noticing?

He clears his throat. "Indeed. That tends to happen in January."

He knows instantly — not by John's reaction but by his own guts — that it's definitely the wrong answer. What was he supposed to say, then? He is terribly not good at all this.

John smiles, somewhat amused, as he steps back. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, John."

He takes his keys out of his pocket and fiddles with the door, looking over his shoulder as John walks away quietly in the night. He has to say something. Anything. He missed a clue — he's sure of it, but what exactly? Can't people just say what they want?

"John?!"

Already a few meters away, John turns back, eyebrows up (hopeful). Oh god. Oh god. Shit. Sherlock curses himself for his lack of any plan.

"I'll— I'll text you, okay?"

"Okay," John answers, still smiling (more sincerely than before, he notices). "Night!"

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock whispers for himself, as he bangs his forehead against the cold wooden door, eyes closed, trying to get his frozen fingers to work the key properly in the un-cooperating lock.


	2. Second Date, or First Date 2.0?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "This is the craziest thing I've ever done," John finally says.
> 
> "Says the man who invited Sherlock Holmes on a date."
> 
> John chuckles, taking his forehead off Sherlock's shoulder. "You're not wrong, you know."
> 
> "I rarely am."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is a surprise (not so much...) second chapter to Sherlock and John's first date. Let's see if they can work it out, this time!

 

"Stamford? Yes, it's Sherlock. He just left, he'll be there in thirty-three minutes if he makes his connection on time. Listen, about that, could you do something for me? Just take a pen and write it down, I'll try to be a concise as possible. Okay, do exactly as I tell you."

 

***

 

The date went just fine, John mentally pats himself as he walks back the few blocks from the Tube to his flat. Going to the movie theater was maybe not the most original thing to do on a first date, but he had to choose quickly after Sherlock had accepted, that it was the first thing that came to his mind. Sherlock had seemed to enjoy it, he even laughed a few times at the jokes and ended up with his head on John's shoulder, which was the best alternative since Sherlock's hand had remained frustratingly enough in his pocket for the first hour of the movie. Knowing that Sherlock had already dozed off a few times like that while watching movies at Baker Street, the proximity had been welcomed and seemingly not at all forced on Sherlock's side.

He climbs up the stairs to his flat, hoping that Mike wouldn't be home to annoy him into a recounting of the night. He would prefer to go to bed already and pine, er, plan their next date. If there ought to be one? Sherlock had not technically said anything, other than he enjoyed himself and would text him — wether in a dating-manner or in a friendly-manner, that John does not know. He had given Sherlock enough clues pointing towards the fact that he could kiss him if he'd like to, which he didn't, meaning he was not ready for that or that he simply was not interested in John in that manner. Maybe he had accepted the date as a kindness to John, not planning to follow through. Maybe they could stay friends. He could handle that, right?

Sighing, John works the door open (you have to pull it hard and then push it to the left, damned be their landlord and his promises of fixing it) before stomping on the landing.

"Mike, you there?" he shouts, taking off his coat and shoes.

"Yep!" Mike answers, opening a beer can — no, two — in the kitchen. He comes in the sitting room, knowing smile on his face. "Sit down and tell me."

"Piss off, you're worse than a teenage girl!"

"Aw, mate, come on! I want to know how John Three-Bloody-Continents Watson handled his first date with a bloke."

John throws a cushion at him at the mention of his infamous nickname, before slumping on their old sofa, Mike sitting down beside him and handing him his beer.

"There's nothing to tell, Mike," John says, taking a sip, "nothing happened."

"Bullshit!"

"We went to the theater, saw the movie, walked him back to Baker Street, came here. Nothing happened."

Mike smiles and shakes his head. "You're terribly disappointing, young man. After all that sad pining you don't get to tell me that you didn't do anything on your first date with Sherlock bloody Holmes!"

John snorts and punches him in the arm. "I was not _pining_."

"Oh please! _Have you seen how he's clever? How he deduced that I was in med school? Do you know that he solves crimes? How amazing is he? You wouldn't believe his eyes. He has the most amazing eyes I've ever seen — wait, I should write a blog about it, so the whole Internet can know too now!_ "

"Fuck off!" He's mostly laughing by now, but still throws another cushion at Mike's face, dangerously tipping his beer on the coffee table. "Okay, I'll admit to some of it, but that definitely was an exaggeration. Beside, that's not even the point, it's not like I _can_ do anything about it."

Mike's face and tone turn comically serious. "John, I seriously thought you were mature enough not to have me explain this to you, but here it goes: if you want to kiss a handsome bloke, you kiss the handsome bloke. And if you want to shag a handsome bloke, you ask him first and if he says yes, you shag the handsome bloke. Comprendo?"

John nearly spits his drink. "Jesus Christ, Mike— what the hell— it's not even—"

"Oh come on, don't go all prude on me, I barely recognize you at all, John Watson."

"It's not like that, okay! I just— don't want to mess it up. He's not exactly experienced with this sort of thing so I want him to make the first move, to be— comfortable with that. Around me. Whatever. I made my intentions quite obvious, he didn't follow through, I was not going to—"

_Force myself on my one-year younger most-likely-virgin genius best-friend_ , he completes in his head.

"Okay, I'll set my head on fire — hell, I'll even do the dishes for two months if I can be proven that Sherlock did not want to snog you senseless on the spot. Tell me exactly what you told him."

John rubs his face with his hands. God, it seemed like leaving Sherlock in front of 221 happened years ago when in fact only an hour-and-a-half had passed. Couldn't he just go to sleep and determine what action to take in the morning?

"I don't know, the usual, I guess— you know, coming up close, I said something along the lines that it was snowing, and he replied that well _yes, that tends to happen in January_." 

"Oh god. Oh dear god help me please…" Mike leans back even more on the sofa, head in hands.

"Come on, it's not that bad, anyone could have picked up that—"

"John, look me in the eye and tell me that Sherlock Holmes is _anyone_."

He opens his mouth, closes it again, and swallows. Fuck. Oh fuck. Sherlock had not implied that he wasn't interested, he simply had not known what John _was_ implying.

Catching John's expression, Mike quirks a brow. "Yeah, that's bad mate, that's bad."

"Christ, I have to text him— no wait, not tonight, I'll just wait and— wait, why are you smiling?"

"It's nice that I'm the best flatmate you could ever have, you know."

"Mike, tell me, I'm serious."

"No, seriously, you should be grateful. And you could express that by… I don't know… doing the dishes for two months would be a good start. That is if you don't move out and marry Sherlock and have kids before that—"

"Mike I swear if you don't tell me I'm going to crack every bone in your body while naming them."

Mike rolls his eyes. "Just check in your room, would you?"

John jumps on his feet. Wait, was he implying that Sherlock had been in his room for all this time? And how could he had gotten here before him? That was not technically impossible, knowing Sherlock and his unbelievable brain-map of London, and for one second the mental picture of a very naked Sherlock sprawled on his bed flashes his thoughts before he can shake it out of his brain. _Jesus fucking Christ, stop this, Watson_ , he tells himself with reason, and opens the door to his bedroom.

What waits for him is slightly anticlimactic: there's a map, one of those printed from Google, with an X on it, and a heavy blanket under it. What the fuck?

It's already past eleven, but the adrenaline is pumping through his veins as he remembers that time Sherlock told him about his childhood aspiration of becoming a pirate. Is that a treasure hunt, then? He shoves the map in his pocket, takes the blanket under one arm, and storms out of his room.

"You'll thank me later," Mike says. "Should I leave the flat tonight in case you two come back here?"

"Piss off, Mike!"

He is already down the stairs when he hears " _I love you too_ , Watson!"

 

***

 

He arrives half-an-hour later and checks the map again to be sure if he is at the right place. John turns on his feet and finally sees Sherlock's silhouette casually leaning against a fence. How does he look so relaxed and composed all the time when John is reduced to a stressed mess each time they merely interact?

"Sherlock, is there something wrong? Why didn't you text me?" His voice is concerned, rightly so, since he was asked to travel half the city in the middle of the night to meet him in front of what seems to be an old cemetery. "Is this for a case?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "No. But I'd like to show you something. If you're amenable, of course," he adds quickly, and John grins.

Surprisingly enough, Sherlock walks ahead and John follows him through the cemetery's gates. Is that Sherlock's preferred setting for the second part of their date? He chuckles silently. He should have known that taking him to the movies was a weak move.

"Charming. Do you often wander the cemeteries at night while on your own?"

"I am not a vampire, if that's what you're asking."

"A zombie, you mean."

"If that's what they're calling vampires nowadays."

"Git." John pushes him gently on the side without removing his hands from his pockets (he really should have thought about bringing gloves with him), and when Sherlock comes back at his side he slightly presses their arms together. It's probably only for them to be warmer, as Sherlock would explain by probably invoking the fifth law of thermodynamics or something of the sort, but he does not speak, and instead they walk side by side in a companionable silence.

John looks around a bit, trying to distinguish the names on the old graves. It is truly the first time he set foot in a cemetery like this one (not that he visits many of them anyway), but it looks more like a park that's grown wild over the years with tombstones spread all over the place without any distinguishable pattern. It has its charms, as much as a cemetery can have in the middle of the night.

They are walking farther and farther from the road, John following Sherlock's lead. He doesn't know if he has any plan or just wants them to wander around a bit. Maybe he is waiting for John to say something, to do something. For once, John would gladly want to know what is going on in Sherlock's genius brain. Without being a consulting detective — the only one in the world, he adds mentally with a smitten smile — he knows Sherlock well enough to be aware of his different moods, unlike most people he works and studies with. But he would surely like to be able to deduce what he is thinking at this exact moment.

Because John does not want to be wrong.

After a moment, they turn left around a corner and between the bushes, John sees a huge cat-like beast lurking in the dark.

"Jesus fucking Christ!" he gasps, jumping back and accidentally elbowing Sherlock, before looking again. It's definitely a lion, but now, under the moon's light, he can see that it would be terrifying if not for the fact that it is entirely sculpted in grey stone.

"No need to be afraid, it's only a tombstone, hardly _la bête du Gévaudan_ ," Sherlock says in a soothing voice.

"Well I see that _now_!"

Sherlock giggles. "John Watson, future M.D., captain of one of the best rugby teams in the league,scared away by a stone cat."

"Oi! Shut up, you!" John hisses back, laughing too and shoving him a bit to the side again.

"And apparently too weak to even tackle one man to the ground. Unimpressive."

"You're wrong, if I wanted to tackle you to the ground you'd already be there, and probably soon on your way to the hospital too."

"I wouldn't mind that," Sherlock says and John's eyebrows dart up as he realizes Sherlock probably blurted that out without thinking, going by the alarming shade of pink that is creeping up his cheeks. He is quite adorable when blushing, but John abstains from telling him.

"Anyway," Sherlock tries again, "the lion tombstone is Frank and Susannah Bostock's. They traveled the continent in the 18th and 19th century with wild animals, and Bostock was the one to hypothesize that lions were afraid of chairs. He was completely wrong, obviously, but he did survive both lion and tiger attacks. He died of the flu, a bit of a disappointing end for a lion-tamer, if you ask me."

John smiles. "Yes, because everybody would have loved to see his head being ripped off by a wild beast."

"It would have at least been an interesting murder to solve," Sherlock shrugs, which prompts John to laugh again.

They go on for a bit, essentially talking about some of the names they see on the graves, Sherlock giving bits of their lives if they were important and known people, or sometimes of the cemetery's history itself. When he does not know anything about the name, he deduces parts of their history, which John understands as totally inventing random facts that grow more and more impossible.

"You can't be serious," John laughs when Sherlock tries to explain that Susan Hickman had been anassassin that caught and slay the real Jack the Ripper in order to revenge the death of her long-lasting lover, one of the prostitutes he had killed, before dying of her own wounds. "She was probably an everyday woman who died of cholera due to contaminated water."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. " _My_ theory was a much more interesting."

"Oh, so now you're agreeing that it's only a _theory_. Christ, it's really freezing out here," he adds, looking at the clouded sky: it's definitely cold enough for snow to start falling again soon.

"Don't worry, we're nearly there."

"Oh, so there's a _there_. I thought we were just walking around the cemetery like a bunch of teenagers waiting for ghosts to show themselves."

"Don't be ludicrous, John… we're too loud to catch any ghosts tonight."

"Ha bloody ha!"

Sherlock does not answer, but points with his chin an old building they have arrived in front of. It's at the border of the park, out of the woods and bushes they just crossed, but it still seems lonely and old, stone house.

"Are we going in?" John asks, with a bit of anticipation in his voice. Has Sherlock taken him to some kind of murder scene without them telling the police first?

"No. Do you have the blanket? Just put it on the bench here so we can sit down."

John does as he is told. The bench is old and also made of stone, directly put against the outside wall of the house. Above them there is a single window, but it's pitch dark and John wonders if someone lives there at all. He sits down and when Sherlock does so too, he wraps what remains of the blanket around them, since staying still will only make them grow colder.

Sherlock checks the time on his watch, and John sees from the corner of his eyes that it's nearly one in the morning. Are they waiting for something?

"Any moment now," Sherlock says, and John can feel the nervousness in his voice.

It only makes him grow more curious about the whole thing. He gets closer to Sherlock, if that even is possible since they are both wrapped in the same blanket, and he is now grateful for it not only to keep them warm but also to give him a good excuse to be close to him. Although it is not something Sherlock seems to mind, going by what he had blurted out earlier.

Just as he wonders if he should finally make up the nerves to turn his face and kiss him, something happens. There is a light that turns on above their heads, and John realizes that it's coming out from the window. He turns a bit, trying to see better, but since they are in total darkness the contrast is too intense to distinguish anything inside, and the angle from where they are sitting is too abrupt.

A minute passes, then another.

Then, slowly, John hears a very low sound that feels like a strange cry, and it makes him jump a bit. Sherlock takes his ungloved hand out of his pocket and takes John's wrist in his hand.

There is another sound, and another follows, and John suddenly understands that someone is playing the cello in the room above them. The notes are low and the music is languid — John is not an expert on the subject, but that is the most beautiful thing he has ever heard, maybe apart from the few times he heard Sherlock play the violin. But this person, _this_ person above them has it all from obvious excellent technique to being able to transcend impossible emotion in the music. If they are not some kind of highly-payed professional orchestra player, then they ought to become one.

"Do you like it?" Sherlock finally whispers. "I found this place while working on a case. They practice every night at the same hour, I come here sometimes to listen to it."

John can't do much but nod affirmatively. He closes his eyes for a second and is transported back to his childhood cottage, when his Mum would put classical music on the old stereo and dance with her children even though both of them complained that it was boring music. God, she would have loved hearing this.

"Do you know who they are?" he asks, opening his eyes to find Sherlock staring at their feet, visibly concentrating on the music himself. His hand is still around John's wrist, but John feels the cold spreading in his finger and so instead he takes Sherlock's hand in his and puts them both in his coat's pocket, which only makes Sherlock wiggle closer.

"No. I never tried to find out."

John wonders if Sherlock is telling the truth. Maybe he does not want to reveal the player's identity. Or perhaps he truly does not know, and had not researched the mysterious player in order to keep something John would refer to as _the magic_ , which Sherlock would probably roll his eyes to and fervently deny it.

After a while, the music changes to something John recognizes as being a waltz. He is definitely freezing all over now, and takes this as an opportunity to stand up.

"Are we leaving?" Sherlock asks, deception written all over his face.

"No, but may I interest you in a waltz?" John extends his hand towards a surprised Sherlock.

"You know how to waltz?"

"No, but I was rather hoping that you'd show me how."

Sherlock seems to consider the offer (so he does know how to waltz, John mentally registers). From what John knows, Sherlock was not quite adamant at dancing at the uni's bar, but that may only have been because of all the people there. Maybe he has a better chance here, and after one heavy sigh, Sherlock gets up and takes John's hand, swinging an arm around him.

"All right, just— follow my lead."

John does his best at not trying not to step on Sherlock's feet, but fails countless times while trying to adjust his position after hearing Sherlock's critiques. Fortunately enough Sherlock does not seem to be too bothered by it, and it ends with both of them giggling, John's forehead against Sherlock's shoulder, both of them gently swaying to the music.

"This is the craziest thing I've ever done," John finally says, referring to the fact that they were supposedly waltzing to a cello in a cemetery in the middle of the night. He will have a good time explaining _that_ to Mike, later.

"Says the man who invited Sherlock Holmes on a date."

John chuckles, taking his forehead off Sherlock's shoulder. "You're not wrong, you know."

"I rarely am."

John hums. They are close. Quite close. Close enough, he would say. For God's sake, why can't he work up the nerve to kiss him already? It's not like he has never done it before. But it's _Sherlock_. It's different. Everything feels different. It has to be right, or he feels like he won't get a second chance to convince him.

"It's snowing," Sherlock says, smiling, in an obvious attempt to imitate John's earlier words, "again."

John rolls his eyes and grunts, remembering how he had made a fool of himself earlier that evening by assuming Sherlock would pick up on his intentions.

"Well," John answers, fisting his hands in Sherlock's scarf, "someone once told me that it tends to happen in January."

He gently tugs on Sherlock's scarf to bring him closer, but surprisingly enough it Sherlock that closes on first, noses bumping awkwardly until John tilts his head to the side, and Sherlock finally puts his lips on John's. At first it's only a quick peck, but he does stay there, probably unsure how to follow through before John decides to take the matter at hand and kisses him back fully.

It's good. It's better than good, it's brilliant. Amazing. It requires the use of adjectives ten thousand times stronger than those that John uses when Sherlock makes his deductions. He can't believe they weren't doing this every second of every moment they spent together.

Sherlock finally kisses him back, pressing his lips harder against John's, and exhales loudly just as John slips his tongue in his barely-opened mouth. The first touch of tongue-against-tongue is electrifying, and John feels Sherlock's hands instinctively roaming on his back, touching him back ( _finally)_. As much as Sherlock's lack of experience is evident he makes do with clumsy enthusiasm and it's still better than any kiss John had prior to this and _dear God_ if he's already that helpless the first time he can't even help himself but imagine how delectable it will be in the few days, weeks, months, and why-the-hell-not years to come the only thing he needs in his life are those gorgeous lips that wicked tongue those hands holding him and John has not even registered that the music stopped playing long ago.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I quite like writing these little unilock ficlets. Maybe there will be more to come in the future? Who knows... ;)


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